Page 18 of His Obsession
“You don’t actually believe that.”
“Not really,” he admits.
“Neither do I.”
He pauses, and when he speaks again, his tone shifts slightly.
“Do you want extra security on the girls at Bellissimo?”
Matteo can always read my mind. I don’t know if this sedan means anything, or if it has any ties to the Marchettis. After the fight a few days ago, though, I’m not taking chances on my staff being harassed again.
“Yes,” I say. “Quietly.”
“Done.”
“And I want names on anybody from Marchetti’s crew who’s been out in West Hollywood this week.”
I end the call and sit with my phone still in my hand a second longer than necessary. Valentina’s last email came in at 6:14 a.m. with revised vendor notes, a cleanly organized run-of-show update, and three questions that demonstrated her impeccable attention to detail. Starting my day with an email from her shouldn’t be as thrilling as it is.
I tell myself the interest is practical. She’s running the gala. She’s good at it. Good work gets my attention.
Even I don’t believe that lie.
She’s intriguing. She pushes back when I expect her to bend. She’s sharper than most people. She doesn’t flood a room with chatter or false charm. When she looks at me, she looks directlyatme, and she doesn’t back down.
The fact that she’s my best friend’s sister should kill the attraction. It doesn’t. If anything, the forbidden just makes it worse. It’s a fruit I need to have.
I leave the conference room and head back to my office. By five, I have another stack of paperwork waiting and a message from my assistant reminding me Valentina is due in twenty minutes for the venue sequencing review.
I spend the next few minutes pretending to read two pages of donor notes while mentally preparing to see Val again. By the time my assistant shows her in, I’ve composed myself well enough that only Matteo would know I’m anticipating anything.
Valentina walks in with a leather folio tucked under one arm and a phone in her hand. Polished, as usual. Cream blouse, darktrousers, hair smoothed and pinned back at the nape of her neck. Apart from the gold hoops that catch against her bare skin, she wears minimal jewelry. She looks effortless, though I suspect she put in real work to appear that way.
Something’s off. I know it immediately, though I can’t place it at first. She isn’t acting differently or moving differently, at least not to the naked eye. But I’ve spent an entire dinner and a two-hour planning meeting memorizing her. There’s tension in her shoulders, and her attention is pulled somewhere else. She sets her phone facedown on the table, then flips it over again before she’s even sat down.
“Afternoon,” she says.
“Hello, Valentina.”
She takes the chair across from me and opens her folio. “I reviewed the ballroom sequence, and I want to change the donor holding pattern before first remarks.”
I study her for a second longer than necessary before looking at the papers she slides toward me. “Why?”
“I want greeters here, a secondary champagne point here, and a staggered soft open on the ballroom doors so guests feel like they’re being invited in instead of herded.”
Another effortless correction. Another detail she spotted that no one else even considered.
“You’re right,” I say.
She glances up, almost suspicious of how quickly I answered.
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
That almost gets a smile out of me.
We go through the revised sequence, then the donor arrival notes, then the ridiculous issue of one foundation board member insisting the photo wall not include any branding “too obvious” despite the fact that the sponsors paying for most of the room are very obviously going to expect their logos. Valentina handles it with sharp, practical intelligence and very little patience for performative nonsense.
Three times in twenty minutes, her eyes drift to the windows. Twice, she checks her phone when she thinks I’m reading. Once, a car horn from somewhere below on the street cuts faintly through the glass and I watch her shoulders tighten before she smooths them back down. By the fourth time, I stop pretending I haven’t noticed.
